


Reunited

by hithelleth



Series: In Enemy's Hands [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Future Fic, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Monroe have a proper reunion. With smut. And schmoop. And angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunited

Miles is wide awake all at once, not knowing exactly why. He doesn't need more than a few seconds to remember where he is.

Charlie is curled up against his side. Bass is gone. That is probably what woke him in the first place.

Staring at the ceiling, hardly perceptible in the darkness, he recalls the non-conversation he and Bass had earlier. The one in which he accused Bass of losing track in his pursuit of power, aware of the double meaning of the word. Bass ignored it, half-way suggesting Miles joins him again, helps him. He made sense, in a way. It will take more to convince him to fall back in line, though. He and Bass need to have a real talk.

He gets up, determined. Carefully not to wake Charlie, he only pulls on his pants before he slips out of the room.

There is a faint light coming from Monroe’s private den, just as he expected.   _Their_ den, he reminds himself. It used to be their little sanctuary, where they discussed and planned and…

A sole candle casts shadows about the room. Nothing has changed about it. Bass himself is a shadow by the window, too, barefoot, a glass in his hands, his shirt open.

Miles stops in the middle of the room, unsure what to do, what to say. A few words come back to his mind, there was something he wanted to say earlier and Bass wouldn't let him. He has no idea what it was now.

When Bass looks at him, Miles feels naked. Well, he half is, technically. But under Bass’ eyes he feels bared to the bone, nothing to hide.

He shifts uncomfortably.

“Um, so I'm forgiven,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“For your many trespasses against me?” Bass scoffs. “Yes.”

A lump forms in Miles throat hearing his cynical, wistful tone.

Bass approaches, setting his glass on the desk on the way, his movements casual, although his face is serious and eyes dark. Miles’ heartbeat picks up.

Monroe stops before him.

“I need you back, Miles.”

“Bass, I can’t…” Miles licks his lips, looks around, searching for words.

“No.  _I_ can’t,” he takes hold of Miles’ chin, making him look in his eyes. “I can’t do this without you.

“The reasons I left still exist!” Miles objects rapidly, forgetting not to raise his voice for a moment, snatching away from Bass’ grip.

Monroe steps back.

Miles’ heart clenches at the bitterness on Bass’ face, in his voice, when he speaks next.

“Because things got out of hand, right? Because you couldn't look at the monster you’d created, because of all the bloodshed? Newsflash, Miles, it’s got worse since you left, because you left! I –” Bass’ voice breaks. “I have no one to trust,” he finishes.

He picks up his glass and downs the remaining content.

Miles knows this. Of course he knows. It’s all his fault. Trying to correct it, he fucked everything up still more. He ran, selfish. And what did he achieve by it, by hiding like a coward? Ben would still be alive if he… He might just as well have killed Ben by himself.

“Tell me, Miles, how many people have you killed since then? What does your conscience say to that?” Monroe echoes his thoughts. Even after all this time Bass can read his mind just as Miles can practically read his, even after everything they are still as attuned to each other as they used to be. It shocks Miles as he realises in that moment that it’s still there, that they are still what he tried so hard to claim it doesn't exist anymore.

Bass moves nearer again, close enough to touch.

“So, you see, you leaving kind of defeated the purpose.”

He grabs Miles’ face and pulls him closer. And that’s it for Miles.

Their lips meet in the middle. The kiss is raw and urgent, nothing gentle, only desperate need, and the taste of bourbon and Bass. Bass, who is savage and demanding, just as he used to be, biting his lips and gripping his hips hard enough to bruise.

Miles doesn't hold back, can’t. He backs Bass to his desk, pins him against it, taking back what was his, what he couldn't forget no matter how much he tried.

Bass’ shirt is gone in a matter of seconds. His skin is hot under Miles hands which can’t keep still, frantically trying to reacquaint with every inch of Bass he can reach. In return, his own skin burns from the trails Bass sears into it, pulling him close, so that their bodies come in full contact, as close as possible.

He can feel Bass stiff against him through their pants, and he grinds into him with his own hard-on.

Bass whimpers at the touch digging blunt nails through the fabric into Miles’ backsides, scraping the skin in the crook of Miles’ neck with his teeth.

“Shit, Bass,” Miles grates through his teeth. He buries his fingers into Bass’ hair, while Bass runs his tongue over his Adam apple. “Please.”

He doesn’t have to ask, really, for Bass is already on the job, undoing his pants, pushing them down. He springs free, and then Bass’ hand is there, his familiar touch tantalising as he wraps his fingers around him, his motions slow and teasing, all the while he nibbles at Miles’ skin, just below his neck, where he knows it drives Miles crazy.

Miles wants nothing more than to touch Bass, too. He rolls down his pants, tugging, making him shift from the edge of the table so that he can slide the annoying piece of clothing down, and Bass kicks it off. He is just as hard as Miles and gorgeous. He twitches when Miles takes him in his hand, rolling his thumb over his head, just the way Bass likes it. And he does, oh, he does, Miles would know even without the groan that escapes Bass. He cups Bass’ face with his free hand, angling his head up so he can silence him with an open-mouthed, hungry kiss. His tongue invades Bass’ mouth. It’s like coming home, and he pours himself into the kiss, all he’s ever missed, all he’s always wanted.

“God, Miles…drawer…” Bass rasps into his mouth.

Miles prolongs the kiss for a few more seconds before he makes himself move away. He almost trips on his pants pooling forgotten at his feet. He shuffles them off on the way around the desk. He doesn't need to ask which drawer to open to find a jar of oil. He grabs it and hurries back.

He kisses Bass again, slowly, savouring him.

“Come on. Want you.” Bass urges as they pull away.

He leans further back against the table and spreads his legs, offering himself to Miles. Miles’ breath catches at the gesture. He takes a moment to appreciate it. However, he doesn't have to be told twice. He opens the jar and slicks his fingers.

He brushes his lips against Bass’ and whispers against them, feeling Bass shiver underneath.

“Still so hot, Bass.”

Bass’ response is lost as Miles touches him again, one hand slowly stroking his shaft, while the other finds Bass’ opening, circling slowly around it before probing inside. He can feel his muscles tighten in resistance, but he insists, teasing, making him relax. He slowly makes his way in, withdraws almost all the way out then pushing back in, turning his wrist, then slicking his fingers again and going for two.

He doesn't know what he talks into Bass’ ear any better than he can grasp the words coming from Bass’ mouth as he works him open. Soon, Bass is a quivering mess as Miles is up to three fingers, hitting that spot inside which makes Bass bite Miles’ lips to silence his cry.

“The floor,” Miles decides. Bass follows him down. He straddles Miles, lining up, Miles’ hands guiding his hips as Bass slowly lowers himself onto him. He takes him in, all of him. Miles forces himself to be still, not to move. Not yet.  

They just look at each other, breathing heavily.

“Bass…”

“Shh…” Bass’ face is almost serene. He runs his hand over Miles’ chest, encircling Miles’ nipples with his thumb and Miles growls in response. Bass leans down, his tongue following his finger, as he starts slowly moving. Miles just lets him do whatever he wants, overwhelmed.

Then he sits up, wrapping his arms around Bass but letting him be in control, setting the pace. Miles finds Bass’ lips and wraps his hand round Bass’ shaft between them, matching Bass’ rhythm. They shift a little to find the right angle and then Bass’ eyes roll back as Miles hits his sweet spot on the down thrust.

This is a wonder, a miracle. This is how it should be, Miles thinks as he can see Bass starting to lose it and his own vision begins to blur. This, Bass in his arms, all his, and he inside Bass, belonging to Bass, this is it. The two of them together, all they have, a family, a home.

Bass’ hands hold on to his shoulders, too tight, surely leaving marks there, too. Miles doesn't care when he looks into Bass’ eyes. He knows Bass is close. He strokes him faster, harder.

“Come on, Bass,” he demands. This is the last push and Bass comes into his hand grunting into Miles’ shoulder.

Miles wills himself to hold on, stroking Bass through before he lowers him down.

He props himself on his elbows and starts moving as Bass is still shivering and clenching around him. The sight of Bass undone beneath him, undone because of him, is Miles’ own undoing. He thrusts a few more times, then shudders and collapses on top of Bass, spilling inside him.

Bass’ arms come round him, so he allows himself to rest a little on Bass’ chest, listening to his heart thumping in sync to his own. They roll on the side and just stay like that, Miles doesn't know for how long.

***

Later, after they disentangle, clean up, have each a glass of water, and put their clothes on, they sit on the floor, side by side against the sturdy desk.

There’s a pitcher beside them, and they pass a glass of bourbon between them.

“I was afraid you’d really crossed to the other side.” Bass admits.

Miles scoffs. “You know I would never do that.”

What they don’t say hangs in the air, lightweight, warm _. I was afraid you stopped loving me. You know I couldn't do that._  Miles finds himself breathing with ease for the first time in years.

“I missed you, Bass.” The words just slip from his mouth. He doesn't regret it. It’s the truth.

Monroe puts the glass he’s been holding on the floor between them, his knuckles brushing against Miles’ on the way.

“I need you on my side, Miles,” he takes a short, sharp breath, a tell-tale sign he’s getting down to business.

“Georgia and Plains are lying in wait to attack any minute.”

“What?!” Miles sits up straight, so he can face him.

“Yeah. I thought you didn't know that.”

Miles shrugs.

“I had other matters to attend. Like helping Charlie look for her brother. Dealing with her mourning her father.”

“I'm sorry about Ben.”

Miles just shakes his head.

“I mean it, Miles.”

“Then you could have given different orders.”

“Perhaps I could have. I didn't want that to happen. I didn't…” Bass waves his hand. “It’s too late now.”

“It is.”

Miles wants to tell him he really blames himself, he wants to tell him words won’t change what happened. He doesn't, though. He studies the pattern on the floor instead.

It’s Monroe who breaks the silence. “I need to get the power on.”

Miles waits. Here it comes. But, of course, with an invasion…

“There are these pendants – “

“I know.”

“You know? Great!” Monroe can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Yeah, so what, you get them and the power back on, and then what, you massacre everyone?”

“Somebody always dies. You taught me that, Miles, remember? It’s just a matter of who. What do you think will happen if there is an invasion, that they’ll march peacefully to Philly and shoot just me and my officers? That they won’t ruin everything on their path? You think they won’t pillage and plunder and rape? You think they’ll leave anyone with any connection to me, to you, Miles Matheson, alone? Your niece, your nephew? It’s us or them. Either we stop their army on the border or innocent people die, too, our innocent people. Or do you qualms about bloodshed go only as far as you own hands and eyes are concerned? I’ll be damned if I believe that. It was you who started all this to protect the weak. Too bad it’s me who needs to remind you of that.”

Monroe pauses. Miles rubs his forehead, runs his fingers through his hair. He has no response to that.

“We have made some mistakes, you and I, along the way. You can blame me more if you want, I don’t care.” Monroe continues. “But how about we try to rectify some, maybe? Or we’ll just let everything that’s happened, everything we’ve done up to now be for nothing?”

 Miles exhales. He can’t disagree. Except in one point.

“It’s me I blame more.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, Miles. I made my own choices.”

“Wow, you’re in quite a speech-mode today.”

“Screw you.”

“You've just had.”

“Actually, it was the other way around.” Monroe points out.

“Details.”

They laugh.

Miles settles back against the table beside Monroe, their upper arms touching.

“What do you have in mind?” Miles asks.

“Would you go back? You know you way around, you have a bit of an outcast reputation, and your rebel friends, and no, don’t object…you can get me those pendants, at least one.”

“And if I can’t?”

“You can if you want. And there are only so many people I can trust with this.”

Miles thinks. Not about whether or not he will do it. He was past that choice god knows when.

“There’s a man, he was travelling with us, he has Ben’s pendant, I believe.”

“Then you’ll go?”

“I’ll go.”

He isn't surprised when he learns things Bass knows, after all Miles started the Militia’s intelligence net, the reason that made it possible for him to evade its spies for years. He presumes Rachel may have started talking, faced with Danny’s capture, but he prefers not to ask.

They discuss plans and routes as the night is growing thin. Miles gets dressed, gathers his backpack.

Standing in the hallway, he throws on last glance towards the bedroom.

“She’s going to be fine.” Bass reads his mind again. “Danny too. Rachel’s still alive,” he adds.

Miles doesn't wonder why Bass would put it like an accomplishment. “Still as defiant as ever, I imagine, is she?” he smirks.

“You know Rachel.”

“I promised her she would see her children again.” He has no idea why he brings that up.

Bass seems to understand, though. “I’ll keep that promise for you.”

He walks him downstairs.

They stop just inside.

Monroe puts his hand on Miles’ shoulder.

“When you come back, I want general Matheson to resume his command.”

“Huh,” Miles is taken aback, “If I get back.”

“You, so full of doubt? When did this happen?”

“ I've changed, too.”

They look at each other, then Bass pulls him into a hug, a full-on embrace with both hands. Miles hesitates for a beat, and then hugs back.

“You will come back.” Bass says, still holding onto his shoulders. “And I’ll try to not let things get even more fucked up as they are till then. Take care.” He lets him go. “Good luck.”

That’s Miles’ exit cue.

He nods. “You too.”

Then he turns and sneaks out the back exit, the one so few people know about that it is left unguarded.

***

Bass returns upstairs, pours himself another glass, but he doesn't drink as he waits. He listens into the night for the sound of fight, a scream, a shot, anything. All is quiet.

In a while he dons his uniform. At dawn he’s already in the headquarters. He goes over reports, papers, having to look at words twice before grasping their meaning. There’s no disturbance, however, and before his officers start coming in, he has himself enough under control nobody notices anything out of the ordinary. 

In the mid-morning, the news comes about a guard who was found knocked out at the exchange of watch. He can’t describe his attacker, a tall man loitering around at night, not answering his call to stop and explain himself, getting him on the ground before he could even draw his sword. Monroe rewards him with a reassignment to the Georgia border infantry, a punishment for negligence on duty, effective immediately.

Only as the day passes, and the evening still brings no news, he relaxes fully. By then, Miles has most probably made it out of the city. 

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta-ed. All mistakes are mine. Feedback is always welcome.


End file.
